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'We don’t want pity, we want action'.

A young student, 12, a temporary shelter

It has been two years since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I listened to the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still clearly recall the auditory and olfactory sensations: powder from the board, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was bombed shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and several classmates lost.

I was in the fifth year on that fateful day: the final day I went to school. That beginning of the day, air raid sirens screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a ordinary day; lessons, intermission, a poem recital. Instead, that day became the last page of my old life.

Conflict has stolen countless things. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I dwell alongside my guardians, male relatives and female sibling in a congested safe space in this coastal area. The tent walls sway with breezes, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We wait in line for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and personal space is absent. Aspiration appears brittle.

At evening, I gaze toward the night lights through the gaps of my temporary home and ponder if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they can, saying they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once dreamed of entering the education field to help local youth learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a writer – to draft, to communicate and to show the world what it means to be a young person in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of fear and hunger, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid fatality and debris, our voices refuse to be silent.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. Sometimes, I visit a modest shelter where aid workers teach us math and Arabic. The sessions are brief – the energy supply stops or the airstrikes begin again but in these instances, I experience vitality. I recall who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who was convinced education could transform society.

Conflict has claimed innumerable things; our homes, learning centers and relatives. I mourned my paternal relative, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my cherished hometown, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the most painful deprivation of all is schooling, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I state this: don’t let our dreams die. We don’t want pity, we want action. Gaza’s children deserve texts, schools and protection. Education is not optional, it is a essential privilege. This region is not just ruins; it is minors who persist in hoping beneath the drones at evening. It is my narrative and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a fractured utensil and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

An educator, 40, instructor in central Gaza

I have been instructing in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in another location, and presently in the central camp in the middle of the territory. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students eager to learn.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the type of instance every educator cherishes.

I always believed learning should be vibrant. My learning environment was a space of amusement, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, performed past occurrences, and turned lessons into stories.

Laughter always permeated the space as inquisitiveness displaced apprehension. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always afraid. My classroom was a protected zone but after 7 October, everything changed.

My school became a safe haven for relatives fleeing the explosives. Not long later, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no schools remaining intact in Gaza now. For 24 months, all has been unusual. The war has broken every part of our reality: protection, dwellings, schools, dreams. Apprehension and mourning are perpetual experiences.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – minors who talked about dreaming of physicians, creatives, and educators. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who remain endure hunger, eviction and weariness – and nevertheless, they still maintain the will to learn.

Occasionally, when the internet permits, I get in touch with a few of them. They message questioning: “How are you, educator?” We exchange brief words, short lessons, minor flashes of interaction amid the turmoil. They inquire if situations will ever go back to normal. I tell them I have no answer.

Throughout this territory, educators, volunteers and non-profits try to teach wherever possible: in temporary structures, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Schooling has become an act of defiance, a way to express: “We are still here.” And as long as we persist in education, we will endure.

Many of us are also guardians. I am a parent of {three|several